


it's a sharp shock to your soft side

by owlvsdove



Series: soft shock [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:48:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz & Jemma decide to lose their virginity. In a completely platonic, casual, scientific sort of way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a sharp shock to your soft side

 

Jemma will always say that it was a whim or a chance encounter. But the instinct to approach him had taken root in her head the moment she first noticed him.

He’s sitting alone at a table in the library. He’s studying but he’s not really focused – she can tell, she knows what focus looks like – and he keeps tapping his pen against his textbook and rubbing his eyes.

She’s seen him before.

Before she even realizes it she’s left her table and sat down at his.

“Hi,” she says, voice high.

He looks up after a beat, confused. “Hi.” And down to his book again.

Her heart is pounding. “Do you want to be friends?” She cringes. She should’ve thought this through before she came over here.

He looks up at her again, slack-jawed.

“It’s just,” she continues, “you’re the youngest and I’m the youngest, and I know that’s not really a good reason to be friends with someone but I don’t really have any friends and so I thought I’d start here,” she rambles, fragmenting her sentence towards the end as his eyebrows knit deeper.

“That’s not true,” he says. “You have loads of friends.” It’s her turn to cock her head in confusion. His eyes widen. “Not that – I mean, I’ve seen you around before, with people – it’s not like I don’t know who you are…” he trails off.

She shakes her head, looking for words. “They’re not really friends,” is what she settles on.

“Are you sure you want me?” he asks, and then grimaces at how it sounds. “I’m not very popular, or—”

“I’m not interested in that.”

“Then what are you interested in?”

“You’re an engineer, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not. I don’t know anything about it,” she says.

“But you’re interested?” he asks.

And she flushes, nods a bit. “Besides, I think you might be the second smartest person here.”

He smiles at his textbook, flattered and offended at the same time. “Did the first-smartest turn you down already?”

“No, the first-smartest is talking to you.”

And he’s blown away for a second. He laughs in surprise, and watches as her smile blooms.

She looks down at the table, moving back down to bashfulness from her cheekiness. “I just think we’d get on.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you figure?”

She doesn’t know how to say she’s been paying attention to him. “Just…an educated guess.”

He smiles. “Sounds promising.” He’s never said _sounds promising_ to anything before in his life. What is happening.

She just smiles in return, pulling some books out of her bag. Her smile is weird. It changes her whole face somehow. It’s brighter, and altogether more desirable than any other expression, he thinks.

Anyway, that’s how they decide to become friends.

 

 

 

 

_Hey, it’s me. I mean, uh, it’s Fitz. Listen, I needed my Evo book so I went by your room to grab it and your roommate let me in. She’s not a very nice person, have you noticed that? Anyway, uh, that’s where the book is. If you need it back you know where to find me. But also I’m about to meet you for coffee and I’m just now realizing there was no real need for me to call you and oh there you are coming towards me right now jesus christ man hang up—_

 

 

 

 

But this is how they become best friends:

It’s been a few months of holding hands in a whirlpool. They’re at the Boiler Room tonight. First term is nearly over and Jemma’s last exam was a few hours ago. Fitz’s is tomorrow afternoon, but he’s not particularly worried.

“Are you sure you don’t want to study?” Her words are running into each other. He shakes his head wildly.

“It’ll be _fine_ ,” he says, stretching out the last word. They are slumped into a booth, grinning lazily at each other.

“I’m really glad we’re here,” he blurts. He hadn’t been thinking this, not much of anything really, but that’s what his mouth says.

“Where else would we drink? We’re _babies_.”

“No, no, no,” he says. Some part of him is waking up, sitting upright, begging him to stop talking. The rest of him doesn’t listen.  “I mean I’m glad we’re both _here_. In the same place at the same time. We’re making history.” He grimaces as his head catches up with his mouth.

She looks at him for a long time, then flings her hand out. He catches it on instinct, if only so she doesn’t knock over his glass.

“Aww, Fitz.” He’s having a heart attack. She squeezes his fingers. “I’m hungry.”

He blinks. “D’you want to order food?”

“No,” she draws out, and then she blinks up at him expectantly.

It takes him a moment to get it. “Do you want me to make you cheese on toast?”

She nods exuberantly.                                                                                                                  

“Alright, come on then.” He stumbles out of the booth, and then hovers while she slowly and carefully makes her way out of her side.

They walk back to his room, chatting idly, moving slow like wading in a pool. The night is cold; it’s nearly Christmas and there’s certainly a bite in the air, so they sink their chins into their scarves and burrow until the keys are in the door.

She dimly tries not to fixate as his hands work in the kitchenette. She leans heavily on the counter, chin in hand, watching. He’s talking about something. He’s stumbling over his words – inebriation doesn’t lend itself to his usually quick way of speaking. It’s entertaining, listening to the sounds.

When he’s finished she eats her snack at the end of his bed cheerfully. He chews his own more mutedly across from her.

“Do you miss home?” she asks suddenly.

“Mmm, yeah a bit. My mum, mostly. Why, do you miss home?”

“No, not really. I mean Sheffield’s fine, I s’pose, and my parents are fine. But I always wanted to leave. Just go everywhere and do everything. So I’m glad we’re here too.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, so you heard that then?”

“I’m drunk, Fitz, not deaf.”

“Right.” He watches as she crawls up to the top of the bed next to him. “You’re sleeping here then?” he says, amused. She’s not even going to bother to ask.

“Mmhmm.”

“Fine then.”

She’s crawled up a bit higher than him, so he’s lying there underneath her outward arm. Her elbow bends and suddenly a lazy hand is cupping his jaw affectionately. He laughs has her fingers play with his face.

She falls asleep first.

 

 

 

 

This is how they _know_ they’re best friends:

When he wakes, he blinks blearily, eyes watering and head pounding. He jerks his head to identify the body next to him, and his movements jostle her awake.

She frowns, eyes still mostly closed. “Did we stay in this position all night?”

“We did not move a fucking muscle,” he replies wryly.

“Wow,” she says.

“This is not the worst, hangover-wise,” he says.

“I think I might puke,” she says, but she sounds just as cheery as the sentence before.

“Well, do it over there,” he says, jutting his chin towards the open room.

“What a kind and caring friend you are, Leopold.”

“Hey, I care!”

She rolls over so her back is facing him. “It’s fine, I think it’s passed.”

There is a long, quiet moment while he replays the conversation in his head.

“You’re going to throw up, aren’t you,” he says.

“Yup,” and she rolls quickly out of bed and makes her way to the bathroom. He puts his hands over his ears but it doesn’t really drown out the noise. The water runs for a bit while she brushes her teeth and then she’s back in bed.

“Alright?”

“Much better,” she replies, curling up next to him.

He closes his eyes again, content to sleep this off a bit more.

“You didn’t freak out over my vomit this time,” she coos as she realizes.

“Perhaps I’m growing as a person,” he says. He opens one eye just long enough to see derision bloom on her face.

“ _So_ proud,” she mocks.

He doesn’t respond; rather he turns on his side to mirror her as they both fall back asleep.

 

 

 

 

_Oh! Um. I thought you’d pick up. The roommate’s on a bit of a warpath, so I thought I’d see if I could come round for a bit? I guess I’ll just come by and see if you’re home. I promise I’ll knock this time. Oh, god—_

 

 

 

 

This is how she gets the idea:

“Don’t listen to that voicemail.”

“Okay. Hi?” he says, stepping aside to let her in the door.

“Hi. Is it alright if I’m here for a bit?”

“Yeah, course,” he says. “Roommate again?”

 

  

 

Actually, wait. This isn’t how she gets the idea. She’s had the idea in the back of her mind for a while now. She’s educated about herself and she doesn’t really believe in fate and she prefers to have control over her life. So yeah, she’s had the idea for quite some time. If she ever had a person around that she felt comfortable with, she would try it out. She just never had anyone around.

But now she does.

 

 

 

“She’s just _so_ rude. She doesn’t like having to share a room with a ‘child.’”

“She’s just jealous because you’re smarter and prettier and you’re going to graduate before her even though she was here before you.” He says matter-of-factly.

She doesn’t know how to respond, so she says something else. “I’m not a _child_. Just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I’m a child. I’m a _doctor_.”

“Very impressive,” he says. He doesn’t seem to be listening anymore, instead fiddling with one of his many projects.

“It _is_ impressive! And yet I have to be afraid to face my grumpy roommate? I don’t see how that’s fair,” she harrumphs. She enjoys this part of the conversation, where she can whine without judgment while Fitz absently murmurs encouraging things.

“Well, you can always use me for my room, Doctor Simmons,” he says, reaching over her head for a screwdriver.

“You’re lucky not to have a roommate.”

“Mmhmm.”

“No one’s ever here to get in your way or interrupt you. Except me, of course.”

“Nope, no interruptions,” he mutters.

And the light bulb goes off in her brain.

 

 

 

 

But it takes her a long while to ask.

She’s pretending to study. He’s also pretending to study, but he’s sort of always pretending to study. It’s hour three and as always his concentration has been broken by some fantastical idea. He’s probably planning it out in his head, staring at his textbook mindlessly.

She’s staring at her textbook too, but she’s figuring out precisely how to say it.

She turns the page. Acting. Good job, Jemma.

It’s going to be fine. It really is. It’s just a simple question. She’ll ask, he’ll say no, it’ll be awkward for a few days and then they’ll be back to normal. There’s nothing to worry about.

“I think we should sleep together.” Wait. No. _No._

He stares at her, pen nearly falling out of his open mouth, for a full sixty seconds.

“I think I just had an aneurism, sorry. Could you repeat that?” His voice is high and tight and oh, wow, this is a bad idea.

“I think we should sleep together. Like, have sex. With each other.”

She can’t help it. Her face contorts as she says it. She’s certainly not repulsed by her own idea; no, the panic is what she’s snared by.

“Wh—um. What. What brought this on?”

“Well.” And she pauses for a long time. Her brain is simultaneously empty and filled with a continuous shriek. “I’m a virgin. And you’re a virgin. It would be mutually beneficial for us to get it over with.”

“Wait, how do you know I’m a virgin?...Right. _Fine_ ,” he responded, off of her look.

“It would just be once. Consider it an exchange of services,” she says, trying to reason.

“Like prostitution?”

She frowns. “Um.”

“It sounds a bit like prostitution.”

“No.”

“Are you using me for my body? Should I be offended?”

“ _Fitz_.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not _using_ you for anything,” she says, remembering how they met. _Did the first-smartest turn you down already?_ “It was just an idea.”

They lapse into silence, staring downwards in thought.

“Why me?” he asks.

She frowns towards the floor. “Why not you?”

His lips purse in that way that means he’s going to say something he doesn’t like. “You could ask anyone and they would say yes.”

She doesn’t agree with that, but she doesn’t want to talk about it now. “You’re my friend.” She shrugs a little bit, a habit she’s picked up from him. “I trust you.” She pauses, wondering if she should continue. “Do you trust me?” She knows a bit about his life before this. She really wants to know the answer, so she peers up to his face.

His gaze is already there, watching her. He nods slowly. “Yes, yeah, of course I do,” he says when he’s a little steadier.

They watch each other for just a bit too long, so she starts in again. “Besides, virginity is a social construct meant to subjugate women. I don’t want to be prized for it. I just want to get it over with, really.”

Fitz nods blindly. He doesn’t know enough about female sexuality to agree or disagree.

“So?” She asks. He’s been staring at nothing for a minute. “What do you think? Did I just muck everything up?”

And her face is crumpling again, so he waves his hands in panic. “No, no! Nothing’s mucked up. Um. Yeah. Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Um. Good then. Maybe we should— _Fitz!_ Not _now_ ,” she shrieks upon looking up at him, hands reaching up to yank his shirt back down over his torso.

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

“Jesus!”

“ _Sorry_.”

 

 

 

 

_Listen, you don’t have to worry about the thing. You know, the thing we talked about yesterday. That thing. You don’t have to worry about it. Just consider it an experiment of sorts. A controlled environment for scientific exploration. It doesn’t have to get us an A or win us a Nobel Prize or mean anything. So not to worry, Fitz. I mean, not that I think you’re worried. I’m not worried. I don’t even know why I felt compelled to call you. You know what, just ignore this. Just ignore all of this. I’m sleep-calling you right now. Okay. Goodbye._

 

 

 

 

“I’ll want your feedback throughout the night.”

They’re sitting on his bed. She’s done something different to her hair.

“You’ll get it. …My feedback, I mean.”

“Right.”

“Same goes, actually,” he says, trying to sound offhanded. “I want to see if I learned anything.”

“Learned anything?” she asks, brow creasing. She’s curled it. Her hair. She’s done it once or twice before but he can’t remember if there was a reason for it or not.

“I studied for this,” he says.

She makes a face. “Fitz, this isn’t going to be like any porn you’ve seen.”

“No!” he shouts, flustered. “Not _porn_. Actually studied. Sexuality, consent, biology. I looked up what you said about virginity not being real. I really studied.”

She’s speechless for a moment. “Oh.” She wasn’t expecting that. In fact, she isn’t really expecting much from tonight. A lot of hesitancy, some semi-awkward kissing, a few minutes of pain, some stickiness, and then pulling her tights back up and going about her business. No fuss. There’s an implication that comes with expecting fuss.

He’s fussed a bit. _Studied_.

“Are you ready?” he says seriously, like they’re embarking on some sort of dangerous mission.

She can’t help but smile, brows raised, at his strangeness. “Yeah, I suppose.”

He huffs, annoyed. “No, _Jemma_.” And he looks at her expectantly.

It takes her a moment, and then she rolls her eyes a bit. “Leopold Fitz, you have my consent.”

“Good.” And then he’s kissing her.

She squeaks a bit in surprise.

It’s not like him to do anything quite so forward, but everything seems quite deliberate, and before she realizes she’s responding. Enthusiastically. His hand is steady on her neck and god, if he can feel her pulse she will die of embarrassment.

But she’s not going to let him get the better of her, no. This is _her_ show. He might have made the first move but she’s a strategist at heart. He had leaned far forward to catch her lips so she pushes back now. Any sense of meekness is leaving her. No fuss. That means she doesn’t have to play bashful. No, she doesn’t feel bashful in the _slightest_.

So she pushes. One of her hands goes to tug at his hair and the other goes to stretch his collar. He whimpers. Yeah, that’s right.

His lips are soft and hard-pressed and his tongue is enthusiastic and _he’s_ enthusiastic and his movements are so loose he might be turning to jelly. Without breaking contact she gets on her knees on the bedspread and gets closer, chest to chest, as close as possible. It’s slower now; she’s controlling the angle and her thumb is at his jaw and he just drinks her in.

Her fingers dip down to undo buttons. He jumps but doesn’t stop her. She starts at the top and he starts at the bottom and they meet in the middle so she can shove it over his shoulders and away. She climbs closer, basically in his lap now, wanting to feel skin. Fuck, she loves kissing. It’s embarrassing how into this she is. He’s not her first kiss, and she won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s her best. But what’s happening right now? This? Good. _Very_ good.

His hands go under her sweater, rucking it up, and they part for a moment so he can pull it over her head.

He looks flushed, kiss-blown lips and pink and red and white and wet. They study each other for a long moment.

This time, when he leans forward, he does it slowly.

She had been muttering to herself on the walk over here. _Don’t think don’t think don’t think_. But she’s thinking now. He’s kissing her and she’s kissing back but her brow is furrowed and her mind is vibrating. She wants to push him around again, but she’s too shiver-shocked; the gust is gone, and she scrambles in mid-air for something to catch her. His kisses are so light, so carefully placed. He’s thinking, too. They are always so equally matched.

She grips the scruff of his neck. She needs to dash away the seriousness because that is _not_ what this is about. She pulls him down, down, down until he’s on top. His mouth leaves hers and kisses down her jaw and the length of her neck. “Fuck,” she whimpers, and he laughs instantly into her skin. Oh, good, her vulgarity saved them. She shoves his shoulders, grinning, then pulls his head closer to keep him working. He gets the hint. His hands are scrambling underneath her back and she’s confused for a minute until she realizes. She leans up a bit so he can unhook her bra; but he’s distracted by his lips’ continued investment in her skin, so she reaches back and puts him out of his misery.

He leans back to pull it off and toss it aside. The look of absolutely reverence on his face sends her into laughter immediately.

“What!” he grumps.

“You just look so happy,” she keens between giggles.

“I’m just a simple man, who happens to like… _you know_.”

“Breasts?”

“Yes.”

“ _Clearly._ ” She’s still laughing.

“It’s not funny,” he grumps some more.

She quiets herself, but she’s still grinning. “Sorry,” she half-whispers, more appeasement than actual apology. And she leans up on her arms to kiss him. He makes that same noise in the back of his throat, unintentional and completely for her. She bites his lip, tugs a bit. A new sound. Cause and effect.

His hands move down, trailing slowly to where he really wants them. She tries not to laugh again. Soon his mouth leaves hers again, pressing kisses to the softness there, until he’s tonguing her nipple and she’s trying to bite back moans. A sharp shock spreading thickly through her veins. She doesn’t mean to press his head down into her chest but it happens anyway, and he redoubles.

She recognizes dimly after a while that if she doesn’t redirect him he’d probably be content to do this all night, so she leans forward to reach for his zipper. He’s startled again. When they’re undone he tries to pull them down, forgetting that he’s mostly laying down, and he flops over wildly, trying to get them off and getting stuck. She tries to hold her laughter in.

“Bloody pants,” he mutters.

She can’t. She can’t hold it in.

“No!” He shouts. “No laughing! Go back to being hopelessly turned on by me!”

She gapes, scoffs, splutters. “Are you serious?”

“I am,” he starts, finally getting one leg out. “Deadly serious.” And the other.

“Wh-I-No! What about _you_?” she protests, waving a hand in towards his now-apparent erection.

“I’m not ashamed,” he says.

She rolls her eyes.

He climbs back over to where he was, nearly on top of her. “I’m sorry I implied you have the hots for me.” He gives her a peck on the lips. “Even though you do.”

“Perhaps in this _one_ _specific context_. Yes. Maybe I do.” And she locks eyes. He is _not_ getting the better of her. “And I expect to be satisfied.”

She expects him to panic. But instead, with determination: “And satisfied you will be. I’d like to go down on you now.”

Okay. She wasn’t expecting that.

“Okay.” Did she just squeak? She didn’t mean to squeak.

He looks like he wasn’t expecting her to say yes. “Good.”

He kisses a quick line down her jaw, neck, chest, stomach. He seems to take great pleasure in unzipping her skirt and rucking down her tights slowly over her legs. She’s still up resting on her forearms so she can see as he pulls her panties off. They cling.

She doesn’t have time to be embarrassed before he dives in.

She frowns. “Um, a little further—”

“ _Wait_ ,” he gripes. “At least let me have a minute to try and figure it out before you get all bossy.”

She rolls her eyes. “ _Alright_.”

She gives him a minute. Then two. It’s kind of amusing.

She puts a hand in his hair and pulls up gently until he’s found it. Now he’s getting the response he wants, all little gasps.

He’s on a steep learning curve. First it’s tiny questioning licks and then it’s pressure and speed and variation. He is a beautiful thing in the middle of his work – shining brightly among colleagues, on the verge of unknown success – and he’d say the same about her. But he’s also sort of beautiful in between her legs.

She’s getting loud now and at the end of a long moan he pulls away, confused.

“Did you—um. I can’t really—”

“Not quite,” she whispers, smiling a bit. She clears her throat. “But now would be a good time to…” And she tilts her head.

“Oh!” He looks nervous. “Good then.”

She watches for a moment and it seems to dawn on him that it’s his turn to take off his underwear. His eyes widen. She pushes him up and she follows suit so they’re face to face, knees sinking into the mattress. She kisses him once, twice; then she makes sure to keep his eyes as she slides his last scrap of clothing down. Somehow he manages to get free of them without falling over this time.

He brushes his knuckles over her cheek. She isn’t so far gone that she can’t see the change come over him. This is _real_ for him now, she can see it, watch it play out on his face, see every molecule of him sinking into something fluid, a state of perfect equilibrium.

It doesn’t terrify her at all. Nope. Not even a little.

Oh, god, it _does_ , it does _a lot_ , but he’s leaning in again and she lets him because despite the outside world she _wants_ to kiss him. Maybe it’s because he went down on her for like twenty minutes or maybe it’s because of other things but right now it doesn’t matter why. She can compartmentalize after the deed is done.

He’s trying to push her on her back now, so she resists. “No,” she says between kisses.

“What?”

“You on your back,” she says. He pulls fully away.

“Why do you get to be on top?”

She resists the urge to let a long, challenging look be her only answer. “Because being on top gives you more control over the speed and depth of each thrust.”

“Right,” he says, brow still furrowed, waiting for more of an explanation.

“Because I’m the one _getting poked_ ,” she hisses.

“Yes. Alright. Okay,” he retreats quickly.

She tilts her chin, pleased. She reaches around him to grab a condom off the nightstand.

“Shall I?” she asks, hand going down to brush his length. He jerks away.

“No no no no no no no no no. No. I’ll do it.” He plucks the condom out of her hand. “Just don’t. Touch.”

She tries so hard not to gloat.

She fails. “I guess you won’t be denying that you think I’m fit too, then?”

“Yeah well,” he mutters, looking down at the task at hand. “You already knew that.”

_Don’t think don’t think don’t think don’t think_. She stares.

When he’s finished, he does not look at her. He places a kiss, quick and impulsive and solitary, on her shoulder. Then he lies down silently and waits for her.

For all of his goofiness and weirdly intense focus and general Fitz-ness, he really does defer to her. This whole thing is in her hands. From day one.  She hadn’t realized before. He is unfailingly cautious with her, so gentle it’s unnerving. She’s used to verbal sparring and arguments and drunken shoves. It’s so strange to be held by him so carefully, not just physically, but in whatever way he’s seeing her right now. Something has shifted. Somehow the more delicately he touches her the tenderer she feels. Her skin is burning and his courtesy is to blame.

She crawls forward. On hands and knees she kisses him, mouth, jaw, eyelid, nose.

He has let her consume him already. She’s trembling, this close to letting him do the same to her.

She has to be careful with him too.

She swings a leg over him and hovers. And lines them up. And slowly sinks.

His hand goes up to brush back her hair, hold her jaw, and the other grips her thigh like an anchor. “Okay?” he chokes out.

She winces, breathless at the fullness and the tightness and the strangeness. “Just try not to move for a moment.”

He nods, determined. He will do this for her. He will make this as easy as possible.

She clutches the wrist that’s still by her face, grips it tight while his thumb strokes her cheek.

And she moves.

She had already been so close to the edge, so it doesn’t take long before discomfort turns into something else. Fuck. It’s strange. She tries to remind herself that this is something animals do, but she doesn’t have the willpower. She’s in a fever. So is he, it seems, because he doesn’t bother to inhibit himself any longer. He leans up to be closer; the angle changes and she _groans_. He kisses her erratically, like it’s an important job but nearly impossible to carry out under these conditions. She understands the feeling. His noises are getting more and more desperate; she can feel the tension in his shoulders as he tries to hold back but it only takes a few extra-demanding thrusts before he’s shuddering and spun out. A few more and she’s flung out of orbit too, crashing into stars, loud and breathless.

She hadn’t been expecting an orgasm from tonight. But she has always been an overachiever. And he has always been willing to help her succeed.

Anyway, _that_ is how everything changes.

 

 

 

 

_Hey, I think I left my tights...You know what, nevermind. You can just toss them. I’ll...talk to you later._

 

 

 

 

But it only stays changed for a little while.

She allows the awkwardness to last for two weeks. She figures that’s probably enough time for her to tidy up the boxes he overturned in her mind. She hopes that’s enough time for him too.

It’s not that they don’t see each other for two weeks. They still go to class and get coffee and study in his room. But their fire is burning blue instead of red, and he’s forgotten to tell some of his dorky jokes, and she’s forgotten to snort at some of the jokes he’s remembered to tell.

So she lets it go for a while.

On the two week anniversary of Fitz giving Jemma her first orgasm that didn’t come from her own hand or a helpful little device, she drops her backpack on the floor of his room in a huff.

“So.”

“So?” He’s fiddling with some little project again.

“This has been awkward enough.”

He sets down his little project.

“It was a good experiment,” she says, a little shy.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad it was you,” she says in a rush. It’s not what she was intending to say next, but it’s what comes out anyway. “Instead of someone else.”

“Even though it wasn’t…even though I’m not your boyfriend?”

She smiles a little. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, because you’re my best friend,” she says, like she’s realizing the words as she’s saying them. “So who else really matters more than you?”

He looks down, trying to hide himself.

“So yeah, I’m glad it was you.”

He meets her eyes, trying not to smile so buoyantly. “I feel the same.”

“Good.” She smiles.

And that’s the end. At least for now.

 


End file.
